


Traditions by UseTheForceEm

by GO_Library_archivist



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adult Situations, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-30
Updated: 2006-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GO_Library_archivist/pseuds/GO_Library_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 6/6/6 Crowley's Birthday Challenge. Wait, demons don't have birthdays.... but why would they, if they did? Aziraphale finds out the answer, and he's not sure he likes it. Maybe they can... talk some problems out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from [Quantum_Witch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum_Witch/profile): this story was originally archived at [The Good Omens Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Good_Omens_Library), which I maintained for eight years until I closed it due to lack of funds and decreased usership. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing the GOL's stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in July 2013. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Good Omens Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheGoodOmensLibrary/profile), or through the [GO_Library_archivist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GO_Library_archivist/profile) account.  
> 

[Traditions](viewstory.php?sid=262) by [UseTheForceEm](viewuser.php?uid=59)

 

  
Summary: Written for the 6/6/6 Crowley's Birthday Challenge. Wait, demons don't have birthdays.... but why would they, if they did? Aziraphale finds out the answer, and he's not sure he likes it. Maybe they can... talk some problems out?  
Categories: [Slash Fanfic](browse.php?type=categories&catid=3) Characters:  None  
Genres:  Romance  
Warnings:  Adult Situations  
Challenges:  
Series: None  
Chapters:  2 Completed: Yes  
Word count: 13395 Read: 1822  
Published: 30 Jul 2006 Updated: 11 Aug 2006

Traditions by UseTheForceEm

  
**Spain: 1484**

Aziraphale was just going to have to "give him an earful".

As it were.

He really needed to learn more about human slang.

Although that was the least of his worries, if he actually thought about it. Which he didn't want to. Because if he thought about it, things were going to get stranger than they already were.

He shouldn't really blame Crowley. In fact, it was partly his own fault. The Arrangement dictated that he should have been with Crowley when the whole Spanish Inquisition bit had come up. He had certainly wanted to be there, but the world was _changing_ so fast nowadays, too many things were happening at once, and it just hadn't been possible. Edward V and his brother had disappeared from the Tower of London, of all places, Richard had been crowned, and the whole thing stank of conspiracy, turning England on its head.

A child had been crowned in France, and a rather dimwitted one in his opinion. He was supposed to marry the Hapsburg princess in accordance with that Treaty that Louis XI had made with the Low Colonies. It wouldn't last, Aziraphale knew; you couldn't trust anyone to stay safe or keep their word these days.

It may have been over a century since the Black Death had reigned indiscriminately over these people, but the mentality was the same.

He had been relieved when the Sistine Chapel had opened, as though a weight had been lifted from his heart. At least some progress had been made on behalf of mankind. It felt a tad unfinished, though. Needed something on the ceiling, perhaps.

But that wasn't the issue. The issue was that there had been too much going on for him to reach Crowley in time. He wasn't sure he had really wanted to. He didn't think he could be trusted to look on all that torture without interfering on a level that would have been inappropriate.

Nevertheless, he'd sort of failed the demon on that front.

From what he'd heard about how the Inquisition handled its operations, it was a wonder Crowley was speaking to him after that at all. Or walking about the earth, for that matter.

The angel had to go find him once he was finally free to do so. He had to explain his absence and apologize for leaving him to face that alone.

He had found him on the streets, and of course Crowley had been terribly drunk in the sort of way that made him skip straight past babbling philosophically and land straight on staggering and raging incoherently. It was rare that Crowley got that drunk, if truth were told, but he absolutely refused to sober up. Then again, he might not have understood Aziraphale's request that he do so, so perhaps he couldn't be blamed for that either.

So of course Crowley was drunk and of course there were people out on the street having some sort of harvest-based festival, all full of wine and merriment themselves, encouraging each other to joy as well as things at the other end of the spectrum that Aziraphale would have no part in thank-you-very-much. But Crowley dragged at his side, caught up in the atmosphere, glad to be someplace where everyone looked so blissful and unaffected. Aziraphale knew this because Crowley had said so, in a very drunken garble that had left the angel guessing at the words for a good five minutes before he could get the demon to speak more clearly.

"We should leave 'ere," the demon shouted, fighting to be heard over the din caused by a street band playing on tinny, homemade instruments. "Go t' China or summat."

"Whatever you like, dear boy," Aziraphale answered obligingly, though he knew that would be quite impossible. The country had been leaning toward xenophobia lately, and they were bound to get strange looks.

"I smell ol' fish. Where's it coming from?"

"That would be the town, Crowley."

"Ah, 'course."

Aziraphale carefully guarded his friend as he staggered from one side of the crowded street to the other, pretended not to notice when Crowley tapped his arse because it was probably an accident, and didn't make a comment on how the demon seemed to speak every word directly against his ear. He figured it was a harkening back to Crowley;s serpent days, when he had needed to be close to be heard. Aziraphale turned his attention to making sure that the children lost in the town square found their way safely back to their parents, ignoring the fact that Crowley had not shrugged off his help yet as he normally would have.

And then Crowley had found some sort of garland that was being used for decoration and wrapped it around Aziraphale's neck, insisting that it would 'do the angel some good'. Exactly what would do the angel some good, Aziraphale was not sure of.

Until Crowley kissed him full on the mouth.

It was not elegant, and the demon tasted like the burning sting of alcohol that was much too strong to be consumed in large quantities, and Aziraphale was keenly aware of the _other people_ in the square, and honestly, who knew what the Inquisition would see fit to take people in for?

Why he had decided to focus on these details and not the fact that _Crowley was kissing him_ he'd never know.

He tried to push the demon off, but Crowley was persistent and -- well, there was no other word for it -- snaky. He wriggled against the angel, leaving no part of his body untainted by the brush of warm skin. Aziraphale thought he really had some nerve trying to pull a stunt like this during times like these (still avoiding the clear and obvious alarm that should have been sounding in his head at the fact that _Crowley was kissing him_ ), and was about to give the demon a smiting the likes of which he hadn't seen since their fights from the old days...

When Crowley promptly collapsed against him.

With a sigh that could be felt by every human being within five miles, Aziraphale picked up his counterpart and went about finding a place to put them up for the night. This was not as easy as it looked, carrying the fellow -- he was heavy, never mind how young and lithe he looked, and he was also rather tall.

He trekked slowly down streets that smelled of spirits and home cooking, and cat piss and fresh flowers. His mood evened out a little when he noticed all the sympathetic stares he was getting from women sweeping their front stoops. Many of them probably dragged their brothers, husbands and sons home in similar conditions every weekend. Aziraphale felt comforted to be in good company for a change.

He opted not to explain when he finally found a room at a relatively inexpensive inn and caught the funny looks he was receiving from everyone working in the place. Shaking his head and trying not to blush, he headed up the creaking stairs, let one of the cleaning maids open the door to the room, and set the demon down on a rickety bed with sheets so old they were browning. Dust kicked up at his feet and he wondered what had suddenly made him so hyperaware of clean vs. dirty, old vs. new.

Crowley did not stir. He did not make sound. He did not even breathe. The only evidence Aziraphale had to confirm that Crowley had not drunk himself to discorporation was the steady thud he could feel against his fingertips when he laid them on the demon's chest.

Aziraphale was relieved. But only for a moment, because it then occurred to him what exactly his counterpart had done. There had been lips and noises, a lot of confusion and folk music, and there had been people and the smell of that ridiculous garland, which he _still_ had around his neck?

He unwound the garland and tossed it aside, suddenly very uncomfortable in his corporeal skin, which lay heavily on him like a thick wool blanket, as if the trembling and clutching he had reacted with had forever polluted his aura...

Oh, God in Heaven. He had reacted.

The alarm finally went off, far too late to be of any use, and Aziraphale cursed himself in a way that he would never do to any other of God's creatures. He suddenly remembered with crystal clarity how his fingers had bitten into Crowley shoulders, how he had quivered ever so slightly, and how Crowley had pressed closer for it. That was all Aziraphale had done during the course of that demonic molestation, but in his mind it was enough.

It was the worst form of self-betrayal he could imagine. It wasn't what he had wanted to do. No, he'd wanted to shove the demon off and put him in his place, and remind him that it was bad form in regards to the Arrangement, and that really relations of that nature between a demon and an angel just weren't right and were sure to be frowned upon by Both Powers That Be.

So why hadn't he done it?

Well, he surely wasn't going to figure that out with the demon right there, and he definitely did not want to witness the hangover that Crowley was going to have when he woke up. Deciding that it was best to leave this alone and slip out of the demon's sight for a good century, Aziraphale had left Crowley at the inn and prepared himself for travel the very next day.

He didn't leave.

Not because he did not have every intention of leaving, no, it was more because of the fact that he soon discovered his body had changed in a way that it was not supposed to, and Aziraphale was terrified out of his mind for it.

He recalled being told that manifesting these... parts... would require an effort on his part. But he knew he hadn?' made that effort, he just knew he couldn't have...

It was terribly inconvenient for starters. He'd practically had to retrain himself to walk. His thought patterns were grossly altered. Simply wandering the streets he was plagued by ideas that previously would have never crossed the minds of anyone within a five block radius of him, let alone crossed his own. The angel also was not prepared for the arbitrary adrenaline rushes, the thoughts that centered entirely on touch, and the irritating stomach flips that occurred seemingly at random.

However, he seemed to have no say in the matter any longer, as it was done. So he stayed nearby, kept a low profile, did a miracle here and there. When he could tell the demon was close he moved out of the area. He visited churches and blessed babies and such. And his readjusted body did its own job trying to distract him, succeeding admirably at it. Aziraphale hated falling subject to it, but he didn't recall being told that he could get rid of any of it and was worried about what might happen if he tried.

It seemed that Crowley's presence showed up no matter where Aziraphale went in the area, and he started to suspect that the demon was looking for him. Maybe this had been some nasty plan of his -- Teach The Angel To Lust. It sounded like the kind of thing he would enjoy. Or the kind of thing he would have enjoyed had he not been completely hammered beyond conscious thought when it had started.

Not that Aziraphale was lusting. He just felt fairly certain that Crowley would try and get him to, if he were given the opportunity.

It went on for months and months like this, trying to ignore strange bodily reactions and failing miserably, until finally Aziraphale couldn't take the confusion and distraction any longer. He had to talk to Crowley and find out what was going on. He was going to tell him to mind his own business. He was going to 'chew him out'.

As it were.

He would have guessed where the demon was even without picking up the demonic activity in the town. Check the cantina closest to the port, the one most likely to get all the foreign alcoholic imports, and you would find a dark-haired young man sitting alone at the corner table, watching the patrons amusedly.

Or you would have found him. Every day except today, apparently.

Today, he was not watching anyone. It took Aziraphale a moment to spot him, expecting something flashy and garish to catch his eye. Instead, Crowley's hair was tossed every which way, his clothes were askew like he'd been in a fight or to a brothel, and the demon was currently draining a bottle of something dark and angry-looking at a small round table crammed up against the wall.

"Is this what you've been doing during these past months?" the angel scolded when he'd reached the table. He realized that he hadn't come to ask that, but scolding Crowley for his behavior was habit by now.

Crowley looked up and peered carefully at him for a moment. Yellow eyes flashed in the low candlelight, and for a moment the demon looked like he had a really nasty comeback for that inquiry. Then he seemed to brighten, as if he had just recognized him, and raised the bottle to the angel. "Come celebrate with me, Aziraphale!"

He clearly wasn't horribly drunk as his slurring was quite minimal, and Aziraphale got the impression that he'd caught him closer to the beginning of an alcoholic binge. Perhaps that was for the best, if he intended to get any answers out of him.

Aziraphale sat down across from the demon, his eyes coming to rest on his hands. Crowley's hands were not particularly graceful the way some hands were, but they were expressive. Right now they said _depression_ and _coping_. The demon rubbed the fingertips of his left hand together. Aziraphale swallowed and looked up.

"What is all of this about?" Aziraphale asked, not in the mood to mess around for a few hours while Crowley thought through his own plans and he got more and more lost. Since that was usually the way things worked when they were drunk.

Crowley waived over a barmaid, speaking as she set down another bottle and two glasses on the table. "Don't you know what day it is?" he said, waving the young maid away and pouring the liquor himself.

Aziraphale took the glass that was nudged over to him on instinct, feeling more comfortable being on grounds that he knew with the demon -- drinking was always something they had both understood. "What are you blathering about, dear boy?"

"El sexto de junio, angel. It's my birthday."

"We don't have birthdays."

" _You_ don't. I do," the demon stated resolutely, knocking his whole glass back as though there had only been a shots-worth in the vessel. After setting the glass back down, he reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of parchment that looked as though it had been read and fingered many times over, nervously at that.

Aziraphale took the note from Crowley and scanned it. It read:

 

_Greetings Crowley,_

_We are delighted to inform you that the Party of the Ninth Circle has determined a birth date for you. It is enclosed on a separate sheet with a note from our Lord and Master. Feel free to celebrate on this day and don't forget to mark it on documents henceforth._

_We'll Be In Touch,  
The Management_

 

"Dear me," Aziraphale muttered in confusion. "What a strange thing to do."

Crowley snorted and poured himself another drink.

"Any?" Aziraphale started, now thoroughly distracted from his original purpose, "any idea why they chose today?"

"You know that priest walking 'round town is a fake," Crowley mumbled uninterestedly.

"Of course I know," said Aziraphale. "I'll be dealing with him soon. But--"

"Because I wouldn't want you to get in trouble for not taking care of that," the demon mumbled again, taking a gulp of whatever they were drinking.

A drop of the liquid clung to his lip. Aziraphale looked away.

"I'm perfectly capable of handling that all myself as you well know--"

"Yeah, I... know. Just checking things over seeing's how you've been hard to get in touch with lately."

Aziraphale fell silent. He sipped at his drink to fill the space. Whatever it was tasted like charcoal and molasses, a mark of the fact that something had to be wrong. Everything was suddenly very uncomfortable again, and he could feel something itching beneath his corporeal skin, but he wasn't sure if it was irritation, or anger, or concern or...

"Boss reckoned," Crowley began without a prompt, "that even though time was hard to reconcile before the world was created, that he'd got it down about right. I mean, he was never quite as good with multitasking as the Old Man was, so we didn't all happen at once of course, the way the Heavenly Choir did. So he thought that was close enough, time-wise. Give or take a few hours."

"A few hours?" Aziraphale asked, curious as to why he felt wrong even as he said it.

"June sixth," Crowley answered, raising his glass as if in a toast. "The day I became a demon. A damned beast of the Pit. A dirty, soulless monstrosity. Cheers."

Aziraphale watched in some horror as Crowley drank to his own toast. He didn't feel uncomfortable now. He felt ill.

"Crowley..."

"You know, people are starting to make weather predictions for the year again."

"Yes, I know but--"

"Don't know why they bother with it, weather predictions are never accurate..."

"True, but--"

"-- really pretty amusing when you get right down to it, since the weather never makes sense to anybody--"

"Crowley, you--"

"-- probably has to do with your side and that--"

"You keep changing the subject."

"Haven?' changed a thing. Talking 'bout the weather."

The angel leaned back in his chair. "Well, fine. If you don't wish to talk about it."

"Nnm."

That was a clear enough answer.

"Gabriel came around recently."

Aziraphale choked on his drink. "What?"

"He told me to say hi from him if I saw you. Doesn't seem to realize that I see you all the time. But that's not important, I suppose. Anyway, 'hi'."

"Gabriel actually talks to you?" Aziraphale sputtered, astonished.

"Only when he's feeling particularly vindictive. You know how he can make a nuisance of himself sometimes."

The angel straightened up, partially offended. "Angels are not vindictive."

Crowley gave him a pointed look. Aziraphale deflated instantly. "Well, I suppose _he_ can be. Sometimes."

Aziraphale took another swill of the charcoal-molasses cocktail to help him ignore his frustration, painfully aware that the demon's eyes were on him as he did it.

"Why are you here anyway, Aziraphale?" the demon questioned, his tone suddenly suspicious in a way that Aziraphale had not heard directed toward him in centuries.

Aziraphale knew he wasn't making Crowley feel any less uneasy by looking down, but his eyes demanded that they go there, and there was nothing he could to do deter them. "I wanted to talk with you about what happened a few months ago--"

His last words were drowned out by a group of noisy sailors who had entered the cantina, singing in great booming voices and clearly already half drunk. Crowley rolled his eyes and two seconds later one of the burly men tripped on something that no one could see and crashed into a table, sending alcohol and overcooked meat all over the other patrons.

Aziraphale's gaze sharpened automatically on Crowley, but the demon didn't seem to notice. He picked up the bottle and the glasses and stood up. "Come on, it's gonna get louder down here. We can go upstairs to my room."

Aziraphale didn't think that was such a good idea, but he wasn't sure how to explain that, so he followed.

Crowley shut the door behind them once they were inside, blocking out more of the noise. "I never got the chance to, er, thank you properly for helping me back there," the demon said with the air of one who never says thank you, all pauses and bizarre, awkward expressions. "I probably would have stayed on the street if you hadn't--"

"You would have done the same for me," Aziraphale said, aware as he spoke that while he hoped it were true, he couldn't actually be sure of that fact. He felt it was true, but that didn't mean it was. He had been wrong before, after all. Lost a sword, and all that rubbish.

Crowley grunted in a noncommittal sort of way and sat down on the bed in the room, motioning Aziraphale to a nearby chair that was shoved up against the wall. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked, placing the alcohol on the floor at his feet.

"Er..." the angel started unhappily as he took his seat, "well, I actually came to yell at you, I think."

"Really?" Crowley said, picking his head up, now appearing to be interested in the conversation. "Where was that coming from, then?"

His eyebrows quirked predictably as he said it, but the arch of them was somehow artistic in that moment, as though they had been painted by someone who knew what they were doing. Aziraphale felt his shoulders tighten for no reason at all.

"Well, I... It was about your behavior during that town festival..."

Crowley's brow furrowed and his face quickly darkened once more, the way it had been during his toast. Aziraphale cringed back for it -- when Crowley's moods were that easily changeable it usually boded nothing pleasant. "Angel, did you come all this way on my birthday to lecture me about kissing you? When I was drunk? After all those reports I did on the--"

Aziraphale could feel the ground slipping from underneath him, felt the chair withdrawing its support and leaving him to flounder helplessly like the imbecile that he was, because how could he expect Crowley to be responsible for those actions, especially now when he was so clearly depressed and had no one to comfort him, now when Aziraphale should be acting like a friend to him more than ever...

He was an angel. It was too easy for him to forgive.

He didn't want to be nice right now. He had come all prepared to be angry, really angry the way that Michael got, or Uriel. But now the demon had managed to twist everything to his advantage, the way he always did, and Aziraphale got to feel miserable for it.

Crowley's jaw was set the way it used to be back during the days when snapping comments had turned into physical brawls that left them bloody, sweating and exhausted. Aziraphale's stomach jolted and his feet tensed painfully.

"I should go," he said despondently, getting out of the chair.

"Yeah, maybe you should," Crowley snapped, still seeming livid at Aziraphale's timing.

The demon stood too, ready to follow the angel and close the door behind him when he left. But the space between the chair and the bed was narrow, and Aziraphale had to edge out sideways and he wasn;t thinking, so he brushed past...

Crowley's arm caught him around the shoulders. "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale's teeth clenched promptly when he realized what Crowley had just felt. He should have been more careful. "That was what I wanted to talk to you about," he said stiffly, unable to look the demon in the eye.

Crowley was blinking. As if that weren't enough, he was blinking in what seemed to be stunned amazement. He was so out of sorts that his hand traveled down of its own accord and cupped the angel where there seemed to be something out of place. Aziraphale went rigid, frozen like a squirrel under the hawk tree. Crowley's eyes widened at what he felt against his palm and fingers, but his composure came back quickly and he mustered a smirk.

"I don't think a pity fuck is exactly what I need right now, angel."

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. He Glared.

Crowley pulled his hand away and inched as far back as he could. "Okay, okay, I know that look. The Heaven-Hath-No-Fury look. No more jokes, then."

But it wasn't entirely a joke. And they both knew it.

"This is your fault anyway!" Aziraphale hissed angrily. Well, perhaps he sounded a bit more distraught than angry. It was probably both.

"My fault? How could you possibly pin that on me? You're the one who has to make that happen. I mean, heck, if I could generate body parts for you at will, you'd be a sight stranger-looking than you are now."

Aziraphale slumped against the wall behind him. "I know. I just... I didn't do this on purpose. I know it was because of what you did, but I didn't try to make it happen!"

"What are you suggesting?" the demon chuckled. "That your subconscious did it? Do you even _have_ a subconscious?"

"Oh, I don't very well know," Aziraphale said desolately, not even wanting to consider the specifics of that conversation. "I just want it to go away. I don't know what to do with-with _this_ , and I want it gone now."

"What, before you've even tried anything with it?"

Aziraphale looked scandalized, but only because he knew he should. "Try something with it? Are you mad?"

"Why wouldn't you? Your superiors would probably go for it. You trying to get more human experiences under your belt, attempting to understand what drives them." The crooked smile gracing the demons lips could have driven a pious farmer's wife with three children to open a hookah bar in her kitchen, sell herself to those young sailors downstairs for cheap wine, and use crucifixes to mark the plants in her vegetable garden. Aziraphale imagined that was exactly what he used that smile for.

"I could never do anything that would taint a human," Aziraphale said reasonably, though his body was feeling far less reasonable. "I would not even consider that. I will lead no one down a path of lust, nor will I endorse the behavior of those who've already walked down that path."

Crowley shrugged. All of that nobility and righteousness from On High, and that was all he could manage in response. "You could do it to yourself."

At that, Aziraphale laughed. It was a nervous sound, and it didn't make him feel any more in control the way he had hoped it would. "I wouldn't know... I'd feel so..."

"Oh, fine then, if you're going to make things that blessed difficult for yourself," the demon sighed before taking the two steps needed to press the angel up against the wall, and crushing his lips to Aziraphale's shocked and open mouth.

"No!" Aziraphale tried to say, but it came out as, "Mmmph!" against Crowley's tongue which had somehow gained access to his mouth, and was now twisting in a way that Aziraphale had trouble following logically. He tried to shove at the demon's shoulders just as he had done last time, and just like the last time his body betrayed him, shivering and digging with fingers into Crowley's shirt and bunching, and when Crowley pulled his hips back ever so slightly and placed his hand _there_ , Aziraphale bucked and arched--

It was all completely out of his control.

The demon had drawn back, his head tilted to one side as he watched the wall plaster chip from the writhing angel squirming against it. He stroked with one finger very gently. "That... that good for you, then? Will it help?"

Aziraphale couldn't speak. He was in absolute shock. That was apparently all the answer that was needed. Or perhaps his gaze had said something that he hadn't meant it to say.

Crowley's hands, which weren't beautiful but they were his, had gone to work on Aziraphale's trousers, which the angel found odd considering how the demon manifested his own clothes, until he realized that Crowley was probably used to watching and influencing humans, who had to do everything manually, poor dears--

His trousers were pushed down just a few inches, enough for Crowley to slip a hand inside and feel less of that ridiculously thick fabric in his way.

Aziraphale wanted to protest so badly. This wasn't a good idea, he knew it wasn't. And he wasn't even having the rational important thoughts that should go with that protest. He wasn't thinking that this was a demon and he was an angel, and someone might get upset Upstairs or Down Below. He wasn't thinking about what it might mean to their Arrangement, or how sleeping with coworkers was tacky and not something that supernatural beings such as them should be indulging in. He wasn't even thinking about the fact that this was _Crowley_ , the one who'd been around since the beginning of time down here, the one who he'd discorporated dozens of ways, and thwarted with every fiber of his being and _when_ had it become okay for them to be kissing and touching and doing other things that ineffability would certainly not give way for?

No, he wasn't thinking any of that.

He was thinking about how easily he could get addicted to this. About how he had been anticipating it since he'd walked into the cantina, or maybe since that first kiss in the town square. No, that couldn't be right, he couldn't have...

But it was.

Oh, no good would come of it.

And then he heard the demon's voice. It whispered as that palm moved up and down like the slow tug and pull of gravity elsewhere, and suddenly the lower half of his body was no longer clothed and he whimpered loudly, thumping his head against the wall behind him, pressing into that warm hand before he could stop himself.

And the demon still whispered. "Please? I know you want... _please_ don't tell me to stop... I want to... If you'll let me, I just--" They were disjointed and unorganized thoughts that Crowley couldn't put together, couldn't say completely out loud.

They made perfect sense to Aziraphale.

Perhaps they owed each other. Crowley for starting this mess for him in the first place, Aziraphale to help make this newly marked day go by quickly for his friend, a day that so clearly needed a distraction...

Surely this was the mother of all distractions.

"This isn't what I came here for," Aziraphale managed to choke out. If he was going to be debauched, he would at least be honest.

Crowley halted, his lips a hairsbreadth from the angel's neck. "What did you come here for?" The demon took a step back and Aziraphale tried not to make a wanton sound as all of that heat and pressure withdrew. To say it was like torture really wasn't true and was also terribly disrespectful, but that was what his mind was telling him.

Crowley was staring at him with a deliberate guardedness that Aziraphale couldn't translate. Or maybe he could, but he didn't want to. Instead, he pulled himself from the wall and watched as the demon took another step back, seemingly anticipating that the angel was going to walk out and leave him to his own devices.

Well, that wasn't fair of him to assume. Aziraphale may have been completely out of his element, but he did think it would be rather cruel to simply walk out after responding the way he had. Not to mention rude.

He reached down and grabbed the bottle that still stood beside the bed. After staring at it good and hard, he took a long swig from it and handed it over to Crowley. The demon's eyes were narrowed and confused, but he accepted the bottle anyway and took a sip. Then his eyebrows shot up and he took a few well-trained gulps to follow. "That's much better than what they serve downstairs," he said, handing it back.

"Indeed," the angel agreed, placing the bottle on the small table next to the bed. "I had to do something for you for your birthday, I suppose. Are you planning on starting any traditions?"

"Do people do that?"

"Certainly. Some do. It's an important day."

Crowley rolled his eyes with an affectedness that Aziraphale could tell he hoped was lofty and aloof. It was neither. And then there was silence. They were both politely ignoring the fact that Crowley looked mussed and flushed, the fact that Aziraphale was still half-naked (the shirt was long enough to afford him some modesty, though not as much as he wanted). Neither one of them seemed to want to move first, as if it was a sign of defeat, or maybe a consent of some sort. Eventually, the demon gave up and stalked past Aziraphale to get the bottle again.

_I should do this,_ came the unbidden thought into the angel's head. _He needs--_

He could almost reconcile it, even in regards to Up There. Almost was good enough.

So while Crowley proceeded to drink again, Aziraphale stepped up to him and started undoing the buttons of his shirt without fuss.

Crowley coughed into the bottle, pulled it away from his mouth and looked down at the angel's hands. "Aziraphale? Why are you--?"

"Well, since I'm half-divested, I figured that you should at least make the effort to do the same," Aziraphale told him, sounding far too all-business even for his own tastes.

Crowley opened and closed his mouth a few times. Each time it was a different sentence. He finally settled on one. "Does this have something to do with the Arrangement? Equal ground and all that?"

"Oh, for Go-"

"Ah-ah!" Crowley covered Aziraphale's mouth with his free hand. "We'll have none of that, thank you."

The angel nodded and slumped a little. He really had no idea what he was doing.

"I-I just want you to know that I'm fine with this. I won't run."

Crowley set the alcohol down again, staring at him pensively. "Run? No one's forcing this on you, Aziraphale. In fact, for a moment there, it looked quite the opposite."

Aziraphale pursed his lips together, annoyed at his inability to articulate. It was not a common problem for him usually. "No, what I meant was, I... I'll do this. I'll stay the night. I'm... Well, I'm not afraid."

Crowley glanced toward a high corner in the room, as though he were thinking over that statement with great care. "I'd say..." His eyes slid back to lock with the angel's. "You're lying."

And Aziraphale couldn't really deny that. He also didn't want to keep playing a game that he didn't know the rules for. So he turned to leave, to stop the humiliation from going any further, and to prevent himself from doing anything else today that was such a _bad idea_ and maybe they could just pretend this whole thing never happened, and the next time they saw each other everything would be back to normal...

Before he had taken two steps, an arm snuck around his waist and pulled him back."?I thought you said you were going to sssstay," came the voice against his ear, warm and enticing and only slightly breathless.

Then he was turned around and faced with the fact that Crowley's shirt was only half-open, but Aziraphale decided he wanted to have some control over his fate in this room, so he ignored it in favor of slipping his tongue into the demon's mouth and lapping at the taste of better alcohol than charcoal and molasses.

It was Crowley who stepped back this time, his gaze turning to the floor as he tried to catch his breath and fought to keep his legs steady. Because their eyes had been open while they kissed and there had been a spark in the angel's eyes. A spark that spoke of new wings and clouds that held your weight and everything that a demon would have lost.

It was the wrong day to remind Crowley.

But Aziraphale remembered his theory: they owed each other today. Maybe that was it.

"I can do something," he offered quietly.

Crowley barked a laugh, looking at the floor as though it had done something that warranted cynicism. "I don't think you can."

"You don't know that."

And so the angel filled his mind with images of heaven, images that the demon could adore and damn all at once -- the searing light, the petty class system, the predictable music, the bizarre-yet-honest sense of belonging -- and tilting forward, twisting so that he was positioned better for it, he kissed Crowley again.

He heard the demon gasp into his mouth when the connection held and then Aziraphale's mind was invaded by images of hell -- too many souls, not enough space, too much noise, shockingly not enough shadow to hide in -- and he took them and let them go. He let them go and focused on this, this feeling, because it was real and present, and not so ridiculously morbid.

He shuddered when he was sure that he felt Crowley mouth the word _help_ against his lips.

Perhaps he truly was doing the right thing after all.

The demon fisted his hands in Aziraphale's shirt and pulled the angel closer, pressing with his hips so there would be no confusion about where things would go from here. Fingers threaded through the greying hair at his temples, Aziraphale thought he heard himself whimper hoarsely, and in the end his shirt had disappeared and neither one of them could have said who had done it.

When it happened, however, Crowley's eyes flew down on sheer curiosity, looking like it had finally struck him exactly what they were about to do because the angel was undeniably naked now. The demon's hands were up in the air, uncertain of where they should land. He finally made a decision and set them on the angel's chest as a starting point. Upon the contact, there was a sharp charge of energy that was both agonizing and exquisite, and Crowley winced, wrenching his hands back in shock. But he was not deterred, and a moment later he had replaced them, his bottom lip held fast by his teeth. Aziraphale tugged in sharp breaths through his nose, determined not to cry out from the pain, undoing the rest of Crowley's shirt buttons and pulling the garment off to preoccupy his thoughts with something else.

The feeling dulled eventually, although every time Crowley's searching fingers hit a sensitive spot along the angel's torso the charge came back, molten obsidian and bitter hoarfrost, making them both shiver and hold their vocal chords still through willpower.

The pain faded into heat and then ash.

Crowley looked up and found clouded eyes staring back at him. "Are... we all right now?"

Aziraphale searched through other planes of sight to try and understand, and what he found was bewildering in the deepest sense. In the midst of black and white auras there seemed to be a grey space absorbing and spreading, engulfing the area. Yet the shade of grey was so bright that Aziraphale would not have known the color had his mind not told him what it was.

"I think we're fine," he said slowly. "We seemed to have reached some sort of equal ground."

Crowley nodded slowly, taking in the information as best he could. "Well, that's good," he finally answered with a small, luring smile, "because I don't know how much longer I would have been able to hold out..."

_Hold out? For what?_

Crowley's hand crept down past his stomach to curl around--

"Bed!" Aziraphale shouted urgently, his hands reaching up and clutching the demon's shoulders frantically.

But Crowley completely ignored the request, dipping his head down and sweeping his tongue along the angel's collarbone. He was humming a song that the angel was sure he had heard, but he couldn't quite place the melody. It was soothing and nerve-wracking all at once, and he wished Crowley would stop humming it while his hand was doing _that..._

The demon's trousers, pants, socks and shoes vanished, and again neither one of them could be sure who had done it, but Crowley was warm and near and--

Aziraphale choked on his own breath, his voice cracking on air.

"Need to lie down?" the demon asked with amused impertinence, tongue flicking over the shell of his ear, tasting.

"Yes, please," Aziraphale replied lightly, a tremor of absurdity in his voice.

And then they switched positions and Aziraphale felt himself get pushed down until he was sitting on the mattress. It creaked, which surprised him, as he did not recall the sound when Crowley had sat down on it. He was prepared to sit there like that forever, to just try and mull over his thoughts because they were straining out on every direction, but then Crowley crawled onto the bed and sat behind him, one hand wrapping around his hip so he could pull the angel up.

Aziraphale was pushed urgently down onto the only pillow that the bed had. It was lumpy and uneven, and Aziraphale was wondering why Crowley hadn't changed it for himself when suddenly the demon was pressed against his side.

"Better?" he asked, his tongue now darting into Aziraphale's ear, reaching his hand down to stroke the angel's hip.

"Easier," Aziraphale clarified, grabbing Crowley's hand and drawing it up toward his face.

The demon's fingers were bright red from touching before. It looked as though Crowley had laid his hands out in the sun for hours, palms-up, or like he had placed them on the hearth before it had cooled.

"Is that going to happen again?" Crowley inquired seriously.

Aziraphale frowned at the question, but instead of thinking he pulled the pale arm closer, touching his tongue to a blushing finger pad. Crowley's eyes went wide, melting out like butter. It provoked him to draw the finger into his mouth, sucking gently, withdrawing slowly. The angel hollowed his cheeks and blew cool air over the wet skin. The demon's mouth went slack at the sight, a small groan escaping his throat. The process was repeated for each fingertip on that hand, his eyes eventually falling shut, breath coming quickly as he squirmed and thrust once against Aziraphale's side with impatience.

"How does that feel now?" the angel asked quietly.

Crowley dragged his eyes open, his pupils dilated enough that they actually looked semi-normal for a moment. "Good enough for me to return the favor, I think," he breathed.

He did not reach for Aziraphale's hand.

The angel felt as though he'd taken a fist to the stomach when Crowley slid down and pinned his hips, which seemed to want to move an inordinate amount now that such attention was being paid to them. Aziraphale was having trouble judging depth, so he couldn't really tell how close the demon was, but it was still rather terrifying.

"Now really, Crowley, that's not at all necessa--"

"You won't be saying that in a moment."

Well now. If he was going to be that crude about it, Aziraphale had a good mind not to react to any--

" _Oh._ "

"Mmm."

"Oh my, _that's--"_

"Unnecessary?"

"Well, I wouldn't -- _aah!_ I wouldn't quite-- say that--"

Aziraphale had seen just about everything when it came to what humans would do to each other sexually. After all, there had been a time early on when they would fornicate out in the open air, in clear view of rivers, fauna, poodles and any rock fit to lean against. Some of them still did. So there was very little the angel didn't know about this. Watching, however, did not explain _why_ they did this, how impossible it was to hold back sound, the fact that those ridiculous facial expressions really _couldn't_ be helped...

Watching did not relay why it made one's toes curl, or how fisting his hand in the demon's hair was actually...

Well, all right. He had _wanted_ to do that.

"Crowley, you really must-- oh, you can't--"

It was much harder to speak than he would have thought.

A tug on Crowley's hair was apparently enough to get his message across, and the demon withdrew his mouth, slowly sliding back up without protest. This was worse than how he had gone down, though, because now he was completely on top of the angel, and not avoiding any areas as he went. Aziraphale tried not to think about how hard Crowley was, how the lithe body felt pressed so heavily against his own damp skin. It was difficult for a mind that wasn't accustomed to such a hectic tumble of sensation.

They could do it this way, Aziraphale knew. They could rock together, rub against each other rhythmically, use hands when it wasn't enough. They could tangle fingers between their bodies, kiss and swear until they came. Aziraphale could almost get himself to initiate that, it sounded good enough. Except he wanted something that they had started, but were not finishing. If only he knew what it was.

The demon was staring down at him, not moving, save for how his chest labored against the angel's as he struggled to breathe. Aziraphale didn't want to stay in the same place though, he couldn't, and so he rolled his hips a few times to let Crowley know that _something_ had to be done.

Crowley gave a small nod, as though he had come to a decision. "You on top, then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I just think it would be easiest, is all."

"You mean we're going to--"

"Look," the demon interrupted with a sigh, suddenly looking very put upon, "you know how this would feel any other way. You came to me for something different... Otherwise you wouldn't have come here at all."

Aziraphale had nothing to say to that. It was truer than he wanted to admit.

"But why me on--"

"Honestly?" he interrupted with a sly grin. "Because as a demon, you don't get to bottom enough. People expect a lot."

Aziraphale fought to keep from smiling. It wasn't _that_ funny.

Crowley rolled off of him and got off the bed. Aziraphale sat up.

"Where are you--"

The demon wandered over to a table in the corner where the remains of this morning's breakfast still sat. Next to the basket of bread there was a dish of olive oil, and Crowley picked it up and brought it back, setting the dish in Aziraphale's hand.

"I'd change into something more stylish, but my head's a bit fuzzy at the moment and it would probably come out as raspberry jam, or some such."

The angel pursed his lips together. "Now you're just teasing."

"Am not," the demon insisted, raising his hands in the air in a gesture of honesty. Only one set of fingers were pink now, the ones that Aziraphale had not touched with his tongue. "Just making excuses for our limited resources."

The demon crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees. He looked over his shoulder at the angel. "You're not going to need me tied up or anything like that, are you?"

Aziraphale knew that he was trying to keep things light, but that didn't change the sinking feeling in his own stomach, and the realization that he wasn't exactly okay with this. He had too many questions about why they were doing things this way.

And then another thought surfaced that made him cringe because he remembered what day this was supposed to be. Well, Crowley became a demon because had Fallen, because Heaven had quite literally screwed him. Maybe he had chosen the positions out of some gruesome, self-deprecating desire to reenact this day for?

"Don't you dare think that," came the stern voice that was so close because Crowley had moved to sit in front of him, had taken the dish from his hands and set it on the bedside table, and Aziraphale hadn't even noticed, and _no_ , he hadn't meant to project that, Crowley wasn't supposed to know that he was thinking about--

"This is not about who has control," the demon said determinedly. "This is just you and me, here, now. We wanted to, remember?"

The angel thought he was being reprimanded in some form, but then Crowley leaned forward and kissed him gently, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck as the demon scooted forward, waiting for the angel's mouth to open to him. The fiasco ended in a tangle, Crowley sitting half on top of him, his fingers scratching the angel's shoulders, his foot curled around Aziraphale's calf.

"See?" Crowley whispered, finally pulling back an inch to stare at the angel's flushed mouth. "It's not about domination. It's just... little surrenders, I think."

"Yes," Aziraphale breathed in agreement, drugged on the feeling of weight and heated flesh in his arms. The demon shifted then, turning enough to straddle his lap properly. The angel kissed the hollow at the base of Crowley's throat, parted his lips and let his tongue lick away the sweat pooled there. Crowley arched his back deliciously at that, his chest pressing flush against Aziraphale's as he writhed and panted, his eyes fluttering closed...

Aziraphale stared openly at this depraved, decadent show and wondered, unbidden, what it would feel like to have that back arch _beneath_ him...

Crowley chuckled low and soft. "Knew you'd warm up to the idea."

"Stop reaching for my thoughts."

"Don't have to. You're _loud_." Crowley's eyes opened again, full of mirth, tempting without shame as usual. "Not that I'm complaining. This just really isn't a conventional way of doing things, when you think about it." He tugged little at the hair at the base of the angel's neck. "I mean, you can feel it, can't you? I swear, I almost feel like I could touch--"

He ran a hand through the air above the Aziraphale's head, and the angel keened madly.

Oh mercy, his _halo..._

He had to stop, but it was the most incredible high he had ever experienced, dangerous and jagged, like running one's thumb against a newly-wrought blade to test its sharpness, and he just wanted to let Crowley...

"Incredible," the demon whispered, withdrawing the hand and rubbing his fingers together in front of his face, as though he could see residual holy energy. "Can't you feel it too? Just under your fingertips, can't you feel..."

" _Scales?"_ Aziraphale gasped. He could feel it. Right under his fingers where they rested against the demon's spine, flesh taut and smooth, but then there were flashes and the skin was replaced with the feel of taut, smooth scales, warmed by the sun. Aziraphale soaked in that energy for his own, not because he needed it, but because it was foreign and exciting and he was absolutely drunk on it...

Crowley hissed and went rigid. "Don't take so much."

"Sorry, I didn't mean--" Aziraphale could see now that he was clutching too tightly to Crowley's back, holding him fiercely, bruising the energy, and he had to let go a little or they would both be damaged for it. He relaxed, his fingers reverting to stroking the demon's spine carefully, and Crowley sighed contently.

"Is that better?"

"Yes..." Crowley leaned forward again, his mouth falling chaotically against the angel's, and Aziraphale whimpered when the demon's tongue tickled the roof of his mouth. Crowley was restless and ground down with his hips. This time he wouldn't ask.

He didn't have to. Aziraphale reached back and took the dish of oil from the small table next to the bed, dipping his fingers into it experimentally. He looked up at Crowley and reached one finger toward his forehead, as if to anoint...

Crowley snatched his wrist away. "That'ssss not funny," he hissed.

"Of course it is," Aziraphale insisted with an angelically devious smile. "You really must calm down, dear boy."

Crowley smirked at that, teeth that were only just on the wrong side of _too-sharp_ grazing Aziraphale's jaw before the demon slipped off his lap and got up on all fours again.

The angel frowned. "Do we really have to do it this way?"

"It'll be the easiest, this time around. You'll just have to trust me on that, and try to be glad for it. Besides, now you'll know what all the fuss is about, and you can determine for yourself if it's really worth all the trouble that these people go through. And don't forget cover yourself with oil too, before you--"

"Really, Crowley, I'm not completely dense," said Aziraphale, slightly annoyed.

"Right. Sorry. Talking too much," Crowley said, spreading his knees further apart to make things easier.

Aziraphale could see him tensing in anticipation when he shuffled up behind him. He kissed the small of the demon's back to ease some of that tension away before breaching him carefully with one oil-slick finger. Crowley cried out and pressed back to pull him deeper, whimpering and fisting his hands in the sheets. Aziraphale had planned on going slow, but ended up adding another finger just to keep up with him.

It shouldn't have been beautiful, there really wasn't anything beautiful about doing something so primal and invasive and _of the body_ , but it was. It was in the way Crowley breathed, in the way he sweat and trembled and so openly desired, so it seemed that if this were truly sin someone had to have made a grave mistake.

And, of course, it was going by too fast.

"Aziraphale, I think that's--"

"Don't be so impatient. I just wanted to see if I could find that spot..."

"What spot?"

"The one... oh yes, I'm supposed to crook my fingers like--"

" _Aaaah!_ Really, angel, you need to -- _naaa_ \-- stop that right now or--"

"Well, all right. I thought you were rather enjoying it."

"That's... the point. Now please, can we--"

"Yes, hang on just a moment."

Aziraphale dipped his fingers in the oil one last time, setting the dish back on the beside table and swiping a hand over himself hastily, trying his best to ignore how much his body was begging for more touch. He held Crowley's hips fast to warn him as much as to anchor himself, and pushed in slowly.

_Oh._

He heard a desperate moan crack from the demon's throat, one that spoke of panicked need and frustrated, eternal waiting. His knuckles were whiter than the sheets.

"Does it... hurt?" Aziraphale asked tentatively.

"A little," Crowley conceded.

The angel couldn't continue with that knowledge. "I don't understand why they do this, then. Why they do this so often if it brings them pain."

"Human bodies are in pain all the time," Crowley said to the pillow. "Sex hurts, growing hurts, labor hurts, aging hurts. You can't understand pleasure without knowing a little pain, and all that garbage. Doesn't make it wrong."

Huh. Well. When he put it that way...

"Please, angel," Crowley pleaded, setting himself down on his elbows, changing the angle. "It doesn't hurt that badly, I just need you to--"

Aziraphale pulled out a bit and thrust in deeper, biting his lip in worry, certain that he was only doing more damage.

But Crowley's head seemed to drop forward in relief. "That'ssss it," he groaned. "You can go deeper than that..."

Aziraphale curved over the demon, wrapping one arm around his chest and letting the other hand fix to the mattress. He pressed a kiss into Crowley's shoulder and thrust again, and this time they both groaned.

Aziraphale didn't speak. He didn't dare.

Until he finally had to. "I don't like that I can't see your face."

He heard a light, frenzied laugh. "You're not... missing anything," Crowley panted clearly as he could manage, rocking back with shocking force. "Just stupid, awkward expressions and... my hair tangling in my face..."

"So then we'd look about the same."

He thought he heard the beginnings of another laugh, but he must have struck something because it gave way to a gasp that sent fiery shocks tingling down his arms, up his neck, to the tip of his tongue. "Yes..." the demon whispered. " _Harder..."_ he breathed.

Aziraphale was convinced that _harder_ would bruise and possibly tear, but he knew that if he didn't, Crowley would do it for him. His head seemed to drift down of its own accord, and he licked against the ridge of a shoulder blade, rewarded by a sharp howl. The demon arched back, giving the angel access to bite down on that shoulder, too hard, because he knew that was what he wanted. Crowley reached a hand above him to knot in Aziraphale's hair, gratitude written in the way the fingers pressed into the angel's scalp. The hand dropped back to the sheets when Crowley couldn't keep his balance, trying to keep up with the pace he had demanded, too thrown by the simple fact that he had gotten exactly what he had asked for: that never happened.

Aziraphale was trying to be sensible the way he always was, but it just didn't work with this, not with sweat, and humid night air, and pounding blood, and slipping fingertips, and how unbelievably _tight_ the demon was--

"Crowley..." he murmured against the tasted-bitten shoulder.

The form below him whimpered devoutly, head twisting to the side just enough that Aziraphale could see him press his lips together in an attempt to keep sound from escaping, from ringing out and disturbing the room one wall apart. To keep all this power at bay, to keep from getting burned again. To keep anyone from knowing that on this dusty uncomfortable bed, in the middle of a nowhere town with a name he couldn't remember, he was slowly coming apart.

Aziraphale could hear his conscience ringing. He had been right all along. _He needs--_

He held on tighter and drove deep.

The angel had been anxious about the position, worried at the idea of dominating with no experience and less of a reason. But the truth was, none of this would have happened without him being right where he was, guiding and steady, and he _felt_ it every second, slowly realizing that this was exactly where he wanted to be while they did this, watching with ardent eyes as the demon clenched and rocked and threw his head back, unburdened by the fervor and constancy of his praising gaze. It wouldn?t distress him if he couldn't see it.

He felt Crowley groan and strain against him, felt the body beneath him quiver when he ground forward and pressed his chest to the smooth, pale expanse of that flexible back.

There was still a hint of scales.

"How-- how close are you?" the demon asked breathlessly.

" _Oh..._ Close, I think," the angel admitted. "But what... about you? What do I... have to--"

"I can take care of it," Crowley said anxiously. "Don't think about it... You just keep--"

But Aziraphale didn't want him left behind to take care of himself when it was over, that was not why he had stayed in this room. Whatever Crowley wanted he would have to take from him, that was just the point. He slid his arm from around the demon's chest, difficult as it was to multitask at a time like this, and moved it lower, brushing carefully before wrapping his fingers around and teasing. Crowley blessed something indiscernible under his breath and Aziraphale was left wishing that he could see what he felt in his hand because Crowley was so close to breaking, and he felt--

"A-angel? _Ah--_ I'm fine-- don't worry, just-- I -- _Go on--"_

It only took a few jerks of his fist to make Crowley shudder and spill into his hand, on the sheets, moaning vowels that were never meant to be actual words, five fingers digging into the arm that had pushed him over the edge.

Aziraphale's hand stroked calmly then, bringing him down, his own mind gone soft and bewildered at what he had done.

"Don't stop," the demon whispered hazily. "You're still--"

"Yes," Aziraphale said shakily, releasing him. Every nerve itched and burned, and he just needed to...

The angel gave several hard, slow thrusts and came, feeling Crowley exhale as he filled him, and Aziraphale couldn't recall a time when this mortal body, a form that never quite fit right, had felt so perfect.

When his vision finally returned to normal and pleasure started coming in ripples instead of tidal waves, he could see that he had collapsed on top of the demon and they were both lying down now, Crowley's head turned to the side so he could breathe properly. He was overheated and the demon was worse, but it was worth it to stay close, his belly fitting comfortably against the dip in the Crowley's spine. But Aziraphale still had trouble seeing his face.

"Turn over," he whispered, nose nudging the back of his neck.

"I can't," Crowley told him firmly, a withheld chuckle in his voice. "Your cock's still in my arse and you're lying on me."

Aziraphale knew that if he hadn't already been three shades of red, he would have blushed scarlet at those words, but it wasn't as though that mattered. It _was_ funny in a lewd, sated sort of way, really. He drew back, slipping out of the demon and turning onto his side so Crowley could move. He wasn't sure how long those simple actions had taken him. Probably a minute, or five.

Crowley rolled up on his side to face him a short time later, yellow eyes narrowed studiously on him, as though he didn't quite know what to make of the being lying next to him on the mattress. Aziraphale wasn't sure what the demon was going to say, but he didn't have to ask, as a short moment later he was grabbed roughly by the back of the neck and dragged into a lazy, fervent kiss, a pliable tongue wriggling against his palate.

"That?s exactly it," Crowley murmured when he pulled back, waving a hand and vanishing the mess between them, his lips tilted up in a satisfied smirk.

Aziraphale was not going to ask for a clarification of that statement. Instead, he reached a hand out hesitantly and settled it on the demon's hip, blushing anew when Crowley raised an eyebrow at him in amusement.

"Are you... How are you feeling?"

The demon's eyes narrowed reprovingly, though the smirk changed to a full out smile. "Shut up, angel," he commanded, leaning forward to flutter his lips against Aziraphale's neck.

He was beginning to think that they would be going at it again soon, when Crowley finally settled down, one arm flung across Aziraphale's waist in a lethargic, if slightly possessive manner.

Aziraphale was touching Crowley's chest absently, because it seemed his fingers would not still now that the knew what the demon's skin felt like. "So I gather that the day went better than you had anticipated," he ventured.

Crowley nodded, eyes going a little wider with mirth. "Almost made me glad it was my birthday. You do a fine job of distracting me."

It was the angel's turn to smirk. "Oh no, now I'll have to come by every year to make sure that you're thoroughly distracted, so you don't mope and cause damage."

Whoops.

"Actually, Aziraphale..." The arm draped over him came to life then, pulling him closer. "That's not a half-bad idea."

"What? No, Crowley, I--"

"You yourself said that humans like to have traditions..."

"Well, yes, but I didn't mean--"

"I suppose if we're posing as humans, we should do the same things they do in these situations."

"You can't expect--"

"It's settled, then. Every year on June sixth, you and me, alone. Nothing to tempt or thwart but each other. Sssso glad you thought of it."

Aziraphale bit his tongue because he knew that if he said something else, the hole he had dug would only get far deeper. The demon had closed his eyes, looking content and smug even as he drifted off to sleep.

He had thought Crowley was unconscious a few minutes later and thought that he should probably leave now, but when he rolled over and started to inch off the bed, he was stopped by a voice.

"Stay the night. You said you would."

Aziraphale paused, glancing over his shoulder. The only sign that Crowley was awake was the crease between his eyebrows. The angel sighed. "I'll stay until the sun comes up," he said quietly. He could set limits too.

That seemed good enough for the demon, and he didn't make another sound as Aziraphale scooted back onto the bed, hooking his ankle around Crowley's to assure him that he was there.

 

* * *

 

When Crowley woke that morning, the angel had gone. There was a note on the bedside table, however, pinned down by the half-used dish of olive oil:

 

_Crowley,_

_Sorry to have departed without taking my leave of you, but I have my own business that needs attending, as I am sure you understand. I hope that things take a turn for the better in the near future, and that I find you in higher spirits when we meet again. I am headed out of the country, so you will know not to expect me nearby. I am sure that we will cross paths soon enough._

_In case we do not run into each other any time soon, I will see you next year on the sixth of June. Somewhere more scenic next time. Venice, perhaps?_

_All my good wishes,  
Aziraphale_

 

The demon smiled, stretched, and went to the window, throwing it open and laughing when the old woman who owned the shop across the street scolded him for not having the decency to dress.

 

 

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 6/6/6 Crowley's Birthday Challenge. Wait, demons don't have birthdays.... but why would they, if they did? Aziraphale finds out the answer, and he's not sure he likes it. Maybe they can... talk some problems out?

[Traditions](viewstory.php?sid=262) by [UseTheForceEm](viewuser.php?uid=59)

 

  
Summary: Written for the 6/6/6 Crowley's Birthday Challenge. Wait, demons don't have birthdays.... but why would they, if they did? Aziraphale finds out the answer, and he's not sure he likes it. Maybe they can... talk some problems out?  
Categories: [Slash Fanfic](browse.php?type=categories&catid=3) Characters:  None  
Genres:  Romance  
Warnings:  Adult Situations  
Challenges:  
Series: None  
Chapters:  2 Completed: Yes  
Word count: 13395 Read: 1822  
Published: 30 Jul 2006 Updated: 11 Aug 2006

Epilogue by UseTheForceEm

 

  
**EPILOGUE: Some time later...**

 

He supposed it was punishment for looking through the demon's books.

It was the only reason to explain why he was pushed up against the wall on June seventh, in Crowley's flat, three years after Adam Young had decided that he quite liked the world as it was.

He had woken up that morning and had every intention of leaving before Crowley woke, the same way he always did every year, but the bookcase in the corner of the bedroom had caught his eye, and he had never seen any books that the demon owned before, so damn him and his curiosity, he'd had to investigate.

He'd forgotten to put his clothes back on before he did so.

The truth was, Crowley had been holding out on him. He had some works that Aziraphale had never even seen in first edition, let alone touched. He had one of the first copies of the _Aeneid_ , signed, with Virgil's little author's notes peppering the margins. Oddly enough, he also had _The Divine Comedy_ (explained when he found the note that Dante had written, thanking him for his expertise), which had the demon's own additions littered throughout the manuscript, including a few well placed, 'Where did _this_ come from?'s. There were several different copies of _The Lord of the Rings Trilogy_ : Crowley claimed to have been responsible for the dozens of different versions of the series, making people buy more than one set because they thought they were different somehow. The scatterings seemed random, but right; Stephen King, Christopher Marlowe (Crowley had always gotten on better with him than with William), a copy of _Metamorphoses_ , and a beautiful edition of the _Canterbury Tales_ that he had to stop himself from outright stealing. Really, the fact that he was coveting was bad enough.

Aziraphale couldn?t believe he had never thought to ask Crowley about what sort of books he kept. He had always sort of assumed that didn?t have any about, maybe to avoid the clutter.

It was his own fault, really. He was one of the reasons they had never made it past the hallway before last night.

He stopped perusing the shelves when a small basket on the floor next to the bookcase caught his eye. It was filled with rolls of papyrus. He crouched down cautiously, as though a creak in the floorboards would disturb them. Surely, there was no possible way he could have...

He took one of the rolls and carefully uncurled it, his eyes lighting on a script whose beauty had been unsurpassed in the lexicon of human language for millennia.

He was so engrossed, he didn?t hear the footsteps behind him.

"Snooping without permission is rude, you know."

Aziraphale stood, the papyrus still open in his hands, turning around to face Crowley even though his eyes never left the text. " _The Book of the Dead_ , Crowley. You have an actual copy of _The Book of the Dead_. And you never told me."

"You didn't ask. Besides, I didn?t know you had a thing for Egyptian literature. You?ve never expressed any interest in it."

"Oh, but this..." the angel breathed, fingers illogically aching to touch the ink, "This is a work of art as priceless as the sketch in your living room. It must be so difficult for you to preserve it without the proper equipment."

"Not as much as you'd think. I keep the temperature pretty steady in here."

Aziraphale began reading from the text silently, his mouth forming shapes of words that were uttered now only by scholars and archaeologists. The difference was, the angel actually knew how it was supposed to be pronounced.

There was a pause as it finally registered that he was still being watched. He rolled up the scroll slowly, against his will, and replaced it back in the basket before he would look at Crowley. It was a good thing too, because it was then that he finally realized that the demon was still naked and that he had never gotten dressed himself.

"Er... I apologize for... for that."

"Do you now?" Crowley smiled. Aziraphale twitched. "I didn't think you'd be here this morning."

"Well, I was about to go, but--"

"-- But you got distracted by fine literature. Only you could get distracted enough to look at books without clothes on," the demon finished, sniggering. It was light and simple, and Aziraphale almost thought he had gotten off scot-free when he said, "You still look a little distracted, though. Why's that?"

_Oh, two guesses,_ the angel thought sarcastically. He would not look down. He wouldn't. He already knew what he would see, he didn't need to look.

"You never told me why you leave before I wake up."

"You didn't ask." Aziraphale echoed the demon?s words back at him with a very different meaning. "Now, I really should be going--"

But then Crowley placed both arms against the wall on either side of him and stepped closer. "Really, angel, this is ridiculous. You're not even dressed; you're half-hard already and so am I. And I'm not making a stab at your virtue, that's just the way these bodies work the next morning, I know. But why don?t we take care of it, instead of letting you leave like that?"

The demon leaned forward and kissed him. He wasn't being cheeky at all, he had really meant every word, and now he was kissing him like he needed this more than he needed frightened houseplants, a classic black car, and a perfect bottle of red wine.

The angel had never been very good at thwarting temptation that was thrown in his face.

So in the end it had to be punishment for looking through Crowley's books that had Aziraphale coming with his back to the cool, rough wall, the demon's hand and rolling hips and breathy moans sending him fast over the edge, and somehow it seemed to the angel that they had come full circle from the first time when Crowley had pressed him up to a wall and whispered words like _please_ and _don't tell me to stop_ and _if you'll let me..._

Crowley came a minute later, rocking against him, whispering something that might have been his name. Aziraphale held him fast, touched him when he needed it, brushed the hair out of his eyes. But the angel felt troubled, and as soon as the demon?s breathing slowed he cleaned them up and manifested his clothes, needing boundaries.

Crowley gave a puff of possibly-laughter, resting his forehead on the angel's shoulder as he materialized a dark suit to cover his skin. And Aziraphale had a sudden desperate need to know if it _had_ been his name that the demon had exhaled in those last moments of pleasure. He needed to know where he stood.

"We shouldn't have done that," Aziraphale said softly. "It's not your birthday anymore."

Maybe it was a stupid thing to say, but they were so careful not to touch during any other day of the year. Nothing except the occasional pat on the back, nudge with the elbow. They were so careful because each year the desire to touch seemed to get worse. At least, it did for him.

The demon sighed, warm breath leaking through the angel?s clothes. "I've been thinking..." he said to Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Should I be worried?"

The demon did laugh then, a nervous sound as he slapped lightly at the angel's hip. "I just think that... maybe traditions are overrated, that's all."

Aziraphale went rigid with preservation instinct. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I don't know why we do this," the demon snapped, dragging his head up to look the angel in the eye. "I don't know why we pretend that this is fine once a year when we both want... look, you know what I mean."

_please..._

_don't tell me to stop..._

_if you'll let me..._

Aziraphale reached up to touch Crowley's jaw, letting just a little of that sunburn-bright energy leak from his fingertips. They had learned how to keep it back since the first time, learned to stop hurting each other, but every now and then a little of it was just what was needed.

Crowley leaned into the touch and whispered something...

So it had been his name.

Aziraphale stared at him, pity and gratitude in the same gaze. "It took you five hundred odd years to tell me?"

The demon snorted but did not draw away from his hand. "Took me... took me longer to kiss you that first time. And I still had to be drunk before I could do it."

The angel cut off the energy and dropped his hand, practically speechless. Practically, until he had a question. "So if we do this, then--"

"Then I can ravage you whenever I feel the need to." He amended when the remark earned him a glare. "And you can do the same, naturally."

Aziraphale thought carefully, worked it out in his mind. There had to be terms to this, of course. Like the Arrangement. "If we do this, no more relations of this nature with humans. I won't share you."

" _Selfish_ angel. Hm, I think I'm liking this better all the time."

"It's not selfish. It's perfectly reasonable to demand to be the sole receiver of your affections."

"Selfish and _greedy_."

Aziraphale huffed. "Yes or no."

"Yes, of course."

He blinked. "What?"

"Yes. That sounds just fine to me."

The angel tried his best to recover from that. "And, er, what about you? Do you have any stipulations?"

Crowley's smile went slanted. "Not yet. Give me a day or two, I'm sure I'll come up with something. You hungry?"

"Famished."

"Let's stay in. There's plenty of food in the kitchen."

Before they had made it all the way down the hall to the kitchen, Crowley had grabbed Aziraphale by the side of his tweed jacket and pulled him over for a deep kiss, the kind that always took minutes because hunger came in many forms and he was a demon after all.

The angel had made a sincere effort to look affronted once he was released. "What do you-- You can't just do that any time you please!"

"Just getting used to it, angel, don't go all righteous on me. I promise that I'll be better with it in a few months."

"A few months?"

"Until then, be prepared for jusssst about anything." The demon's sunglasses appeared in their proper place and Crowley grinned, stuffing his hands in his pockets and strolling toward the kitchen.

Aziraphale stared after him until he had disappeared into the next room.

"You know, after all the trouble you've caused me over the years, I think _I_ should get a birthday."

The only answer he got was a chuckle and the sound of crockery being set on the stove. And though he scolded himself for it, he gladly followed the sound.

END

 

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


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